


Wooden Walls

by terminaltongues



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Feral Behavior, Feral Derek Hale, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 08:46:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17056598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terminaltongues/pseuds/terminaltongues
Summary: Stiles is reaching out before he can think things through. His fingers trace the hardened line of the man’s shifted face.“I wish you didn’t have these,” he says running a fingertip over Derek’s canines. So I could kiss you. The words get stuck in his throat and for once he stops them before they can leave his mouth.OR Stiles finds a feral werewolf in the Hale house the summer before he goes to college.





	Wooden Walls

**Author's Note:**

> unedited

The file sits at the bottom sticking out beneath a large pile of other abandoned cases. It’s more faded than the others in the stack, defined by its frayed edges and the large red slashes across the front of it drawn crudely with a red sharpie. Stiles swears the pile falls by accident. By accident, he means that while in the process of trying to ease the file out like a difficult game of Jenga, he accidentally steps on a broken doorknob on the attic floor and the whole stack of cases tumble down with him.

He groans and sits up, now covered in confidential papers and a thin layer of dust. Coughing, he sifts through the mess until he finds what he’s looking for.

The Hale Fire.

The papers in the file are creased and faded, signs of frustration and stress from his father. Stiles is careful with them as he sifts through the different pictures and notes but doesn’t pay too much attention to keeping things in order. He knows that his father has a binder with photocopies of all the evidence and notes stashed in his bedroom between photo albums and a dictionary.

It was the case that would never leave him, his father used to say. Stiles suspected its significance had more to do with the fact that it happened within months of his mother dying than the case itself. Although, the case of a house burning down with an entire family somehow trapped inside was a compelling story, what stuck out most about the case was that one of the bodies was never found.

Derek Hale.

Cora and Laura Hale, the lone survivors of the atrocity, claimed that he was still out there, but they resigned to claiming him as deceased after a year.

Stiles doesn’t know why he’s looking through the file. He supposes it’s because it marks one of the greater mysteries of his childhood. It was something that he could guarantee to find at the dinner table next to a beer and a microwave dinner. His father carried the thing around with him like a bible, until the Sheriff at the time told him to archive it and move on.

Seeing the small, faint scrawl of red ink on a yellow legal pad, smeared and stained in sections is nostalgic. If Stiles was anyone else, perhaps he would be sifting through childhood photos instead of an unsolved crime. If Stiles was anyone else, he wouldn’t be deferring his acceptance to Stanford; he would be packing his things and getting ready to move on to the next stage of his life. Instead, he finds himself clinging to file, determined to leave his father with something tangible before he moves out.

Stiles gently wipes the dust off the file, tucks it under his armpit, and walks downstairs.

 

 

To avoid suspicion, and also out of some convoluted sense of respect, Stiles decides to park at the edge of the Beacon Hills Preserve and hike the rest of the way to the Hale house. It’s a decision Stiles regrets the deeper into the woods he travels. The trek is not far nor is it particularly isolated or eerie bathed in a warm, summer light, but Stiles can't shake the feeling that he isn't alone. It's a primal feeling like a deer perking up when it senses a predator is near. Stiles shakes himself out of it and hurries his pace, shoving his hands deep into his pocket.

The Hale house stands in ruins as it always has since the day it burned to the ground. It is, Stiles notes, in relatively good condition. No graffiti defaces the planks of wood that remain on the walls or the porch. If it weren't for the raw, blackened state of the paneling and the fallen beams from the ceiling that litter the dirt and grass, Stiles would say that the house had merely been abandoned. Its emaciation and slumped stature are not unlike the appearance of a house pet, left behind by its owners.

Stiles doesn't know what he is expecting to find. There are no clues to what might have happened here, no signs of tampering or trickery. The case was officially closed years ago. His summer plans suddenly seem frail in their aspirations.

He sighs and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets before ascending the porch steps with delicate, measured steps. Wandering in, Stiles is surprised to see that the inside of the house looks similar to the outside: decayed and worn but not uncared for.

Stiles moves about the house, pretending his dad is with him pointing out different grooves in the wood that might show him something he missed the first time around. It is a fruitless exercise, but it brings Stiles a sense of comfort, so he indulges in the process. He runs his hands up and down the sooty exterior of the stair banister and along the top of a dirty sofa cushion. There are no wrong answers, his dad likes to say, only new lessons.

Stiles gets so invested in his meticulous inspection of the upholstery that he doesn't notice the shifting of shadows behind him. The floor behind him creaks. Stiles jerks and turns to assess the disturbance. A blur of a figure launches itself at him, too big and fast for Stiles to discern any details before he's flailing backward over the sofa. He hears a loud growl before he topples off the couch and slams into the edge of a coffee table. His vision blurs and then leaves him all at once plummeting him into cool darkness.

 

Stiles comes to consciousness moments later to a throbbing pain at the edge of his hairline and the smell of what he assumes to be a dead animal assaulting his nostrils. Blinking, he realizes the scent is coming from above him. Stiles’ breath hitches and his body goes stock-still.

Inches from his face are a row of sharp, blood-tracked canines. Canines that belong to a snarling face, contorted and animalistic, and glowing blue eyes.

Oh god. A thousand thoughts race through Stiles' mind. Was this fate? Was this his punishment for not letting dead dogs lie? His dad is going to be so upset once he finds his ravaged body.

If Stiles was less busy trying to keep his heart from beating out of his chest, he might have noticed that the man-beast was too busy sniffing at Stiles' cheeks to do any ravaging. Actually, Stiles would notice, that despite how the large notably naked man-beast was keeping him pinned in a straddle, his threatening behavior was less threatening and more of a curious snuffle.

Still. Stiles is not trained in man-beast etiquette, so he lets him have his way, sniffing at Stiles' cheeks and neck without moving an inch. The man-beast pulls back and gazes at Stiles with cloudy eyes, as if he isn't seeing him but recognizing that he isn’t alone either. They hold a curiosity, sharp and clean underneath the electric glow of his eyes. He moves his hand, a clawed hand, from where it is keeping Stiles' left arm pinned to tug at the collar of Stiles' shirt.

Without thinking, Stiles bats the hand away

"Hey, hey. None of that," he squawks, "Just because you don't have any clothes, doesn't mean you get mine."

The hand pauses just above his skin, the sharp edge of the claws reminding Stiles of his predicament.

His heart stutters in his chest. Moments like these make Stiles wish he had any sort of brain-to-mouth filter. His father always said it would get him killed, but those imagined deaths never went anything like this.

The man-beast blinks down at him, uncomprehending.

Stiles stares back, his breath coming in pants.

"Can you..." Stiles takes in the cloudy surface of those bright eyes and searches for something that might tell him what the man-beast is thinking. "Can you understand me?"

The man-beast quirks his head to the side but makes no action to acknowledge Stiles' question. Rather, after a moment of silence, he places a gentle, hairy hand against Stiles' chest and grunts.

Stiles waits for the ball to drop and for the hand to plunge into his chest and pull out his heart to eat, but it remains still, almost reverential in its gentleness.

"What are you?" Stiles wonders aloud. The hand exerts the softest pressure, and the man-beast grunts again.

"Hey buddy, I don't understand what you mean when you do that-" Stiles stops short when the hand abruptly travels to rest against his throat, long fingers gripping his skin with a gentle weight. Stiles freezes, not daring to make a noise with sharp claws this close to his jugular.

The man-beast grunts again and Stiles can only blink back at him, trembling silently in his grip. A moment passes and he grunts again, frowning. With the canines taking up most of the space in his mouth, the pout looks comical on the man-beast's face.

"Look," Stiles tries, voice coming out soft and croaky, the presence of sound exaggerated by the hand clasped against his throat, "I'm pretty sure you don't want to hurt me, and I definitely don't want to hurt you, so if you would just get off of me maybe we can try and work something out..." Stiles trails off when it's clear the man-beast isn't listening. His eyes have fallen shut, and a look passes over his features, softening them into something more human, Something like contentment or satisfaction.

Regardless, they fly open when he realizes Stiles has stopped speaking. Those bright blue eyes flash before the man-beast releases a long, drawn-out whine. Stiles' eyebrows furrow.

"Do you want me to keep talking? Is that what you're trying to say, buddy? You like the sweet serenade of this Stilinski? Well, you wouldn't be the first to fall for the charm and wit of a Stilinski man, so don't feel bad about it or anything," Stiles babbles on, unable to stop himself.

The man beast's eyes slip shut again. Uncertain, Stiles keeps chattering on, shifting topics as fast as he settles on them. He describes the etymology of the Stilinski name before launching into current sports before reverting back to Polish history.

Stiles can tell the man-beast isn't listening what he's saying. Rather, Stiles notes, it's the vibrations of his throat that the man-beast seems to be tracking. His eyebrows furrow and unfurrow with the undulation of Stiles' speech as if the production of sound is a miracle in itself. As if he knew that Stiles was sharing a fundamental secret of being human, but he had somehow forgotten it. He looks more man than beast. The thought pushes Stiles past a place of fear and into a place of curiosity. What part of this body above him was truly beast? What had made him like this?

Questions begin to flood Stiles’ mind faster than he can think of things to say, and without much thought, his words slow to a halt.

The man-beast’s eyes open and Stiles can’t help but search for a sign of humanity in them. They stare blankly back. Stiles thinks they look melancholic.

“Hey…” Stiles starts, but can’t think of anything more to say.

The man-beast pulls away with a grunt and a frown as if recognizing that whatever fear he inspired in Stiles earlier is long gone. He lets out a final grunt before leaving in a flurry of motion, springing his lithe body over the sofa and bounding out the door.

Stiles lies dazed, not moving a limb.

There are no wrong answers, just new lessons. It seems Stiles has a lot of new lessons to learn.

 

Werewolves. Of course, it is werewolves. Stiles feels stupid now. It takes all of five seconds of thinking what to type in the Google search bar for the answer to reveal itself.

Werewolves. It explains the glowing eyes and fangs, but Stiles still can’t understand why the werewolf didn’t say anything. He acted surprised when Stiles was talking to him but showed no sign of understanding what he was actually saying.

Maybe he wasn't cognizant when he was shifted? No... that didn't seem right either. Stiles swore he felt some sort of human connection when he locked eyes with the guy, especially when the werewolf's fingers were wrapped gently around his throat. Stiles brings his own fingers up to skim the part of his neck where those clawed hands had touched. He shivers with the phantom touch.

Maybe the wolf was just being territorial. Wolves are very territorial animals, so maybe the werewolf had claimed the ruined house as his den, and Stiles' intrusion was seen as a threat. The only problem with that is that if Stiles was truly being viewed as a threat, he would have been thrown out or torn apart as soon as he entered. The hand on his throat felt like acceptance.

Stiles frowns at his computer with his head perched on his chin and his knee bouncing restlessly slamming against the bottom of his desk at random intervals. He skims through various websites that display folklore and myths among the occasional supernatural erotica novel.

He isn’t going to find anything else here. He had a sinking suspicion that the only answers that are worth getting come from a very hairy wolf-man.

 

Armed with a stack of hamburgers (for the werewolf) and two cartons of french fries (for himself), Stiles drives up the path leading to the Hale house. Unsurprisingly, the house looks as abandoned and empty as usual, but Stiles is confident the smell of the food and his loud chewing will draw the wolf out of whatever dark shadow he is hiding in.

He treads carefully, scoping out the house before returning to what he assumes used to be the living room and sits down on the couch. He also brought a stack of research in a folder and a pack of highlighters to make use of while he waits for his wolf.

He makes it through a page and a half in silence before there is a loud creak from down the hall. Stiles pulls the yellow highlighter from his mouth with a smirk. For an apex predator, his wolf lacks subtlety. Stiles doesn't move. Instead, he watches with bated breath as the werewolf slinks into the room, eyes flashing blue and fangs exposed.

The scary predator approach is wasted on Stiles. Wiggling his eyebrows, Stiles lifts the bag with the patties and gives it shake.

“I come in peace,” he says flashing the Vulcan salute. The werewolf doesn’t seem to register Stiles’ words, but he also doesn’t attack Stiles, so he’ll call it a win. The werewolf steps forward and sniffs the paper bag before tearing it from his hands and shoving the hamburgers, wrapper and all, into his mouth. Stiles grimaces, equal parts intrigued and disturbed by the sight; he also feels a thrumming sense of pride that the wolf takes his offering.

Stiles waits until the bag is nothing but a scrap of paper before speaking up.

“I bet you are hungry,” he starts. The werewolf licks his clawed fingers, not batting an eye in Stiles’ direction. “There’s only so much venison a guy can eat before he goes stir-crazy.”

The words coming out of Stiles’ mouth make him want to eat his own fist, but he can’t help himself.

“Yeah, I wasn’t sure if you were a McDonald’s type of guy. I mean you’re clearly, uh, you know… health conscious,” Stiles gestures wildly at the werewolf’s hairy but thoroughly ripped six pack. He would have thought that he would look more gauntly given his lumbering forest-man lifestyle, and while the man’s hair is a nest of twigs and dirt, his body is lean and cut. He looks like a medieval warrior, a naked medieval warrior. Stiles flushes.

The wolf perks up, staring at Stiles intently. His eyes have dimmed into a natural hazel color. Under the new wave of embarrassment that Stiles feels, he notes that the werewolf looks more man than wolf like this.

“I could try Burger King next time,” Stiles says weakly. Just like that, the werewolf’s attention is gone and he is back to licking his claws. “Or Wendy’s or Jack in The Box or whatever else. I’m not picky and it’s all super cheap anyways. I’m just trying to gauge your preferences… or thoughts…” The wolf is definitely not hearing a word of this. “Or even you’re name. C’mon man! You’re a werewolf, not an animal. Talk to me here!” Stiles throws his hands up in frustration when the werewolf continues to ignore Stiles.

“How about Subway? There’s no way you’d be okay with me bringing- hey!” Stiles squawks, outraged when the wolf turns and bounds out the door.

“I wasn’t done talking!” Stiles yells at the wolf’s retreating figure.

 

 

“Is this how it’s going to be?” Stiles asks, dejected, watching as the werewolf tears through a paper bag from Wendy’s to get to the beef inside. It’s been a week. Stiles and the wolf have developed a pattern at this point. Stiles walks in with the food which the werewolf tears through before promptly leaving, regardless of the fact that Stiles is usually in the middle of a sentence.

“I’m not your keeper, you know.”

The werewolf ignores Stiles in favor of glaring at the empty Wendy’s bag like it’s personally offended him.

“You rock the whole wolf-man vibe, but I’m not buying it. I know there’s a man in there somewhere, and I’m not leaving until I bring him out. That’s right, I’m staying right-” Stiles cuts off when the wolf strolls out the door. It’s a leisure walk. The wolf even has the audacity to turn back and give Stiles a lazy stare before trotting away on all fours.

“That’s right! Run away you ungrateful bastard!”

Stiles shakes his head; he can’t tell if the wolf is getting more domesticated or if the wolf is domesticating him.

 

  
It’s approaching mid-July, and he still hasn’t made any progress with the wolf. He feels bad even referring to him as such, but he has nothing else to go off of. He has a plan, though. It’s not a great one, but it’s a plan.

He walks into the living room with his head held high not fazed at all by the sight of the naked werewolf sitting on a coffee table. The werewolf perks up when he sees Stiles and his claws twitch outward as if to reach for the greasy paper bag clasped in Stiles’ left hand. Stiles hoists it back out of the wolf’s reach.

“Not today,” Stiles announces. The werewolf doesn’t react beyond the slightest furrow of eyebrows. “No more freeloading. Shake my hand,” Stiles commands. He sticks his hand out and waits. His face burns as he does it. He feels uncomfortable like he’s trying to train a pet, but he needs some kind of proof that his wolf remembers what it’s like to be human.

The werewolf looks unamused.

Stiles sighs.

“Like this,” he says, miming the action with his free hand.

The wolf reaches out a clawed hand, and Stiles sucks in a breath of anticipation. The clawed hand swipes up and the werewolf jumps, launching himself off the table and at Stiles’ tense form. Stiles scrambles backward, tripping over himself as he retreats out of the house and into the safety of his car, the wolf hot on his heels. He slams the door shut and pulls the greasy bag close to his chest.

The wolf is crouched and growling a couple feet from the Jeep. Stiles stares down the wolf-like he was born for it. The werewolf growls and bares his fangs.

“No,” Stiles asserts, “If you want the goods, you have to give me something in return. I’m not asking for a lot, just a shake of the hand.”

The wolf growls, and Stiles briefly considers growling back just to see what kind of reaction he might get. Instead, Stiles sticks his hand out the window and waits. The werewolf inches closer, still growling, but not as alarmed as before. His nose twitches as if he knows that Stiles has the food even if he can’t see it.

“C’mon big guy,” Stiles goads, “I’m not asking for a lot.”

Finally, the wolf gets close and with scrutinizing, slow movements, he sniffs Stiles' hand. Stiles opens his mouth, ready to praise the wolf before he feels a sharp sting in his palm.

Stiles yelps.

The werewolf bit him. It was more of a nip really; The werewolf’s canines didn’t even break the surface of his skin, but still. Just as fast, the wolf slips a clawed hand into Stiles’ and gives it a rough shake before retreating and glaring expectantly at the dumbstruck teen.

Almost on reflex, Stiles hands over the bag. He stares as the wolf grabs it and runs off back into the house, not sparing Stiles a second glance. He sits in the driver’s seat and runs a stunned hand through his hair.

He can’t believe it worked. His wolf really did have it in him. The human part of him may be trapped deep inside, but it is definitely there; Stiles just needs to bring it out.

 

After the first debacle, it becomes a little bit easier. The werewolf is stubborn and spends a lot of time huffing angrily at Stiles or nipping at his hand instead of actually listening to what Stiles is saying. Some days he ambles in with a bloody mouth and hooded eyes and just growls at Stiles as if to say, I am a predator, I don’t need you. On those days, Stiles glares petulantly back before taking the hamburger out and eating it in big, obnoxious bites. The werewolf positively howls at this, eyes flashing blue, but he never exerts force to get his way. He just glares at Stiles before either taking off or deciding that he’ll comply with whatever Stiles wants. And when Stiles does get he wants, he makes his pride clear. If he were less of a nice guy, he would start doling out ‘good boys’, but since he is half decent, he just claps and whoops and praises his hairy friend telling him how proud of him he is. He swears that sometimes he sees his wolf preen under the attention.

It’s not perfect nor conventional, but it’s progress.

 

Stiles decides to get back online and see what he can find out about his wolf’s condition. Although his ability to communicate has improved substantially in the past month, he still shows up partially shifted. From what he can find in the depths of the internet, his wolf isn’t the alpha (based on the blue eyes) and is trapped in his beta-shift form (based on the fangs and hair). What he can’t figure out is why his wolf can’t shift back to his human self.

When he finally figures it out, Stiles feels like a complete idiot. The answer reveals itself on a blog called Fangs 4 Fun. Three years back, the author posted an entire article on feral werewolves. It lists the traits of a feral werewolf and the circumstances necessary to create one. A particular line catches his eye.

It reads, “If a werewolf is abruptly or traumatically cut off from its pack, it may experience what’s called ‘Feral Exodus’. This is a coping mechanism used by new omegas to deal with the event and the break from the pack bond. The new omega retreats into the most primal part of the wolf in order to evade the trauma being experienced by the human region of the self. Thus, the werewolf experiences an exodus from the human self and can, in the worst case scenario, find itself stuck in the primal part of the self. The best way to draw a feral wolf back to its human side is for a new alpha to accept it into its pack or for the wolf to be reminded of who it was as a human…”

The article goes on to list ways to deal with a feral werewolf. Stiles grimaces when his eyes skim over suggestions for killing a feral werewolf. Overall, it seems pretty comprehensive. Stiles is already on his way to reminding his wolf how to be human. Finding a new alpha is out of the question, but if he can somehow remind the wolf of his past, then he’ll be well on his way to making his wolf a new man.

The only problem is that Stiles has no idea who his wolf is. Why is his wolf so attached to the Hale house? Did he know the Hales? Where does he go when he’s not there? What sort of trauma would have put him in that kind of state? How long has his wolf been like that?

His brain churns out more questions, one after the other until they are a blur of words and punctuation. Then, all of a sudden, they come to a crunching stop when his eyes register the poster taped to his wall. It’s at the center of a large cork board and has approximately thirty red strings emanating from it.

Stiles bangs his head against his desk and groans.

On the faded, photocopied poster is a picture of Derek Hale at age sixteen with the word ‘Missing’ printed in bold, black letters beneath his photograph.

 

Stiles brings extra hamburgers the next day. He can’t stop jittering from the anticipation of seeing Derek. Derek. His wolf finally has a name. Stiles feels like an idiot for not realizing it sooner. He could have been out to tea with Derek weeks ago having a civilized conversation if he hadn’t been so caught up in his stupid handshake trick. Stiles also feels equally embarrassed. No wonder Derek doesn’t want to turn back human. He has essentially no one in the world looking for him and no home to return to. Stiles doesn’t blame the guy for wanting to try his hand at being a wolf.

Except… Stiles can’t let that happen. For one, it’s not humane. There is clearly something in Derek that is trapped, and now that they’ve established this weird sort of companionship, there’s no way he can abandon him. Selfishly, Stiles wants Derek to shift back so he can ask him what really happened that led to the Hale fire. Stiles is more certain than ever that whatever happened was not an accident. Once Derek shifts back, he can set the rumors straight and maybe his father will get the closure he’s been searching for; It’s the least Stiles can do.

Thus, Stiles is standing in the Hale living room with a handful of Wendy’s takeout and a photocopy of Derek’s ‘Missing’ poster.

"Hey, Big Guy," Stiles greets when he sees the werewolf seated on the living room table, legs splayed out haphazardly. At this point, the werewolf's nudity has no effect on Stiles, but he makes sure to avert his eyes today, freshly embarrassed now that he knows his wolf's identity.

Derek eyes Stiles curiously as if he can smell the excitement on the teen. He doesn't make a move towards the food. Stiles simply tosses it to the guy, too excited to bother with his dumb tricks from before.

Derek digs in with a flourish. Stiles waits until his wolf is done before saying anything.

"Derek," he starts. Derek doesn't react or show any sign of recognition. "I figured it out. I know who you are. Derek Hale, I know who you are."

Derek licks his hand and notably doesn't react.

He approaches the wolf and holds the photograph out like an offering.

"Derek," he repeats, "This is you. I'll admit that the photo is a little outdated, but it's you. You've been missing for a long time, but I've finally found you, and once we get you shifted back, we can go to the police department and announce your return to society. My dad is the sheriff, and..." Stiles trails off when he realizes that Derek has perked up, eyes bright, but not unnaturally so.

"Can you... Can you understand me?" Stiles wonders out loud.

Derek stares back, unblinking.

"Your sisters, Laura and Cora, are alive too. You've been presumed dead, but once we get you back on your feet, we can let them know and they can fly out and-"

Stiles knows that on some level Derek understands what Stiles is saying when the werewolf begins to let out a long, drawn-out wail.

"I know it's scary, but they're you're family. They'll know what to do. Laura-" Stiles cuts off when Derek lets out a louder, more pained wail. He's wailing uncontrollably now as if he is being physically attacked. It's a horrible mix of a wolf's howl and a human scream.

Stiles takes a nervous step forward, arm outreached. Derek rears his head and growls, eyes wide and frightened. Stiles swallows.

"Derek?" He tries.

Derek shakes his head before slamming past Stiles nearly knocking him off his feet. Stiles steadies himself and grabs the photograph up from the floor. He sighs and follows his wolf’s anxious path to the door.

Baby steps.

 

  
Stiles comes back the next day with a double order of hamburgers to find Derek waiting for him on the porch. He is sitting unnaturally still, but his eyes are glowing hot and blue. Stiles holds the bag out like a peace offering, approaching the man slowly.

“I’m sorry about yesterday, Derek. I brought you a double-” the bag is ripped from his hand before he can finish, and Derek takes off into the woods.

Stiles turns and stares, sputtering, after him.

 

  
The next day, Derek isn’t there at all. Stiles can’t help but feel like it’s punishment for all the days he made Derek perform tricks for him. Regardless, Stiles feels spurned by the rejection. He keeps coming back to wait for Derek before he inevitably gives up and goes home. He knows Derek is avoiding him on purpose because when he comes back the following day, the food from the day before is gone.

On the fifth day, Stiles decides to wait him out. He can almost feel Derek’s presence hovering at the edge of the treeline. The heat of the icy blue gaze seems to follow him as he paces up and down the creaky, wooden steps. He is sure his wolf will show himself at some point.

Four hours later, he’s not so sure.

“Fine! We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Stiles calls out, peeved and dejected. “I’m sorry. It was a dick move, but how am I supposed to help you if you won’t talk to me?”

Stiles pauses a moment, but no response comes. He throws the day’s bag of junk food at the ground and stalks back to his Jeep, slamming the door behind him.

Stiles debates not going back. He debates this angrily and loudly, yelling his profanities and complaints to the photocopied picture of Derek. After a while, his anger dies out, and only a sense of rejection lingers. He knows he’s being unfair. It’s not Derek’s fault that he can’t change back. It’s not Derek’s fault that his family is gone.

 

  
Derek is sitting on the porch the next time Stiles drives into the driveway. He feels like dropping to his knees and praising the sky. He feels like throwing himself at his wolf and begging for forgiveness. Stiles does neither of those things.

“Derek,” he calls tentatively. He clambers out the door and holds the Carl’s Junior bag close to his chest. Derek makes no move to respond, but he also doesn’t move to take off in the opposite direction. “I have Carl’s Junior’s today. There was a deal,” Stiles says lamely.

Derek makes no verbal response but surprises Stiles by reaching out and taking the bag from him. His movements are gentle, unlike his previous tearing and lumbering about. It startles Stiles into a momentary blankness of thought. He sits down next to Derek, gratified when the man lets him. Derek gently unwraps the hamburgers and eats it a way that is both reverent and somber, a combination of expressions that Stiles has only seen achieved on his wolf’s face. When he is done, he hands the bag back to Stiles careful to not make eye contact with the teen.

Derek leaves in the same manner; his movements are gentle and intentional as if to put his control on display. Stiles swallows hard. Derek is doing this for him; he is giving this gentleness in the same way he gave Stiles a handshake. It feels too strange to be intentional as if his human side is informing his instincts while he was around Stiles. It felt like an exchange or a gift.

It feels, Stiles thinks, like an apology.

 

This new shift seems to last. Derek is calmer for some reason that Stiles can’t explain, and he sits close to Stiles while he eats. He still makes no effort to engage Stiles in conversation or communication of any sort, but he seems to enjoy the human company. Stiles is careful not to mention the fire again. As sharp as the initial success felt, it is clear that barraging Derek with old memories is not the way to go.

For now, he enjoys this new, calm Derek. Sometimes they sit on the dusty couch together and Stiles reviews old files while Derek naps next to him, his legs spread lazily over the edge of the couch and his head propped against the side of Stiles’ leg. He suspects Derek isn’t really sleeping, but the illusion is nice enough.

 

 

There are days when Stiles gets there and Derek is nowhere to be seen. It doesn't happen often, but occasionally Stiles will drive the Jeep into the driveway only to be met by a quiet and still house. It's because of days like these that Stiles starts to bring other work with him. Before, he would occasionally bring the old files with him, but now he brings books from the library and stacks of half-filled notebooks and sketchbooks. He usually sets up camp in the living room and gets to work. About an hour or so will pass before Derek wanders in, eyes bright blue and confused. During these moments, Stiles isn't so sure the werewolf recognizes him. It's almost as if he can see the wolf in the man's eyes in control of the body but not the mind.

On days like these, Stiles talks and talks. He talks about everything and nothing, filling the space between them with half-baked stories and local gossip. When Stiles gets bored of talking about politics or the news, he dives back into his past and paints long, exaggerated tales of his childhood. He tells him about the one time he convinced Scott to jump off his roof breaking both arms. He tells him about how, in a moment of adolescent panic, he climbed up on the roof and jumped off too, breaking his own leg in camaraderie instead of running off for help. They were banned from seeing each other until their wounds had healed.

Sometimes Stiles talks about his dad. He doesn’t do it as often. It’s easier to talk about Scott and the stupid adventures of their childhood rather than relive the memories of empty beer bottles and sad, drooping looks.

Very rarely does Stiles mention his mother. It’s almost an unintentional when he does. The thoughts pour into his head and out his mouth in a quiet, whispered stream.

“I didn’t really get it at first,” Stiles starts, voice quivering. “Why waste the ground space for a body that is going back to the dirt, anyway?”

Derek doesn’t respond, but he indulges in Stiles and tucks in head into the teen’s lap. Stiles imagines that the wolf likes the touch because he can feel the vibrations of Stiles’ voice, reminding him of his presence and his essential humaneness. On days like these- good days- Derek turns somewhat pliable, clingy and tactile in a way that neither of them seems to notice. Stiles is hardly conscious of the fact, but he begins to pet at the werewolf’s head nonetheless, running his fingers across the scalp in a soothing pattern.

“Of course, humans have been doing it for eons. The Egyptians did it. The Greeks did it. I just…” Stiles trails off and for a moment they sit in silence. He clears his throat, “I guess I just don’t believe in an afterlife, or if there is one, I don’t like to believe that is where she went. I like the thought that life ends at death and when we put her in the earth, her spirit, or whatever, didn’t crawl back out to live another life. Maybe that’s selfish- to want to be her only chance at life.” Derek nuzzles closer as if to disagree. “I guess I also like the thought that when I visit her,” Stiles’ voice catches, “She’s there, she’s all there. I think she would agree with me if she could.” Stiles laughs something bitter. “I think she would want me to believe whatever I want if it helps me move on with my life.”

It is during these moments that Stiles wonders if Derek can understand what he’s saying. Are they just sounds paired together in a rhythm that is soothing to the werewolf or is he truly reaching him, deep down wherever the man inside the wolf is hiding? He stills his hand and gives the beta’s cheek an affectionate pat.

“Your family would want you to move on, Derek. We’re going to bury the dead, and then I’m going to bring you back to life… I promise.”

If Derek is listening to Stiles, he shows no signs of it.

 

  
Stiles stops himself from doing more research. It feels like a betrayal to try and access any more information on Derek while the man himself can’t even shift back into his human self. Stiles has no right to snoop around the internet for his past. Everything he needs is trapped in the man himself; he just needs to figure out how to access it.

“I was thinking,” Stiles starts running his hands gently through Derek’s tangled, black hair. “Maybe I should try and contact Laura and Cora. I found their emails online and I could probably get access to a current phone number at the station. If they knew you were here, I’m sure they would be here in a heartbeat. What do you think?”

Stiles is grateful when Derek doesn’t immediately bolt at the mention of his sisters. Derek rotates on his lap so that Stiles’ hand slips from his hair and he’s staring down at Derek’s eyes. They are glowing blue and terribly sad. He doesn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers, “I know, I know. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t bring it up again during the remainder of the visit.

 

  
Stiles goes to see Scott. It's only when he sees his best friend does he realize just how much time has passed. It's reaching the end of July. Scott's hair has grown out past the length it was when they were both red-cheeked freshman. He looks like a real man with his locks pulled back into a small bun at the top of his head.

Stiles feels a pang of guilt in his chest. It's been too long since he's seen him. Between trying to piece the case together and visiting Derek, Stiles hasn't really carved out any time for his friend, who happens to be leaving for college in less than a month. When Stiles walks into Scott's room, he's shocked to see that what used to be a teenager's pigsty has been converted into a minimalist's dream. A row of boxes lines the wall. The posters from his wall are rolled up next to his dresser. Stiles would be lying if he said the sight didn't make him tear up a little bit.

"Wow," he says uselessly. He plops down on the bed and spreads out.

Scott sits at the edge of the bed.

"I know," he agrees, "I can't believe it's finally happening. I mean, I can't believe we're actually adults."

Stiles knows what he's really saying is that he can't believe that they aren't children anymore. All things considered, Stiles hasn't been a child for a long time, but he gets what Scott means.

"I'm really going to miss you, man," Scott admits, eyes cast aside. He's always been like this: good-natured, but a little embarrassed by anything too sentimental. Stiles swallows what feels like a shard of glass down his throat. He's barely seen Scott this summer. He doesn't feel like he deserves this heartfelt goodbye.

"I'm not going anywhere," Stiles reminds him. He means for it to come out joking. Scott spent a good part of May reminding him of this and teasing him about how while Scott will be paving his way out in the world, Stiles will be back in Beacon Hills knitting. Instead, he sounds wistful bordering on nostalgic.

Scott bats at his leg.

"You know what I mean," he gripes.

Stiles sighs, staring up at the ceiling.

"Yeah."

He does.

 

 

Derek is quiet today. He is present on the porch when Stiles drives up, but he makes no move to approach him. Instead, he sits on the steps of the ruined porch and watches Stiles intently with glowing blue eyes. The eye thing still kind of spooks him and intrigues him in equal measure.

Stiles takes it in stride.

“Hey, Big Guy,” he greets. He pairs it with a gentle card of fingers through the squatting man’s ratty hair, careful to skim over any aggressive knots. Someday, if the werewolf allows, he is going to go after that nest with a pair of shears. Until then, he settles on the hair pat and doesn’t react when Derek nips at his hand lightly before following him into the ruined house. He thinks little of the playful nip until the nip turns into a growl and suddenly Stiles is being shoved into a wall.

“Ow, what the heck.”

Derek is pressing his face into Stiles’ neck with unusual force. Stiles flails under the assault but goes still when Derek grabs his wrist with a gentle touch, mindful of his claws.

“What…” Stiles trails off when Derek begins to lick at his neck. His tongue wipes overs his skin in harsh strokes as if he is trying to clean the skin straight off. Derek breaks from his incessant licking to sniff aggressively at his shoulders and down his torso, growling.

He pauses and looks up at Stiles, his eyes glowing bright and alive with emotion. Stiles stares back, confused by the outbreak of feeling from the werewolf but pleased by the engagement.

“What’s going on, Der?”

Derek’s eyebrows furrow and Stiles is surprised to see a glint of hurt in the man’s eyes. Derek growls and begins to claw at Stiles’ shirt in earnest. He’s wearing a plaid button-up over his red t-shirt. Derek is focused exclusively on the plaid, tugging at it until Stiles relents and shucks it off.

“Okay, okay! Hey, calm down- hey!” Stiles cries as Derek rips it the rest of the way off, tearing through the fabric at the sleeve. “That’s Scott’s shirt!”

Derek gives Stiles an unimpressed stare and proceeds to tear the shirt in half.

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles throws his hands up in the air.

Derek whines and tosses it to the side, looking upset, as if he can’t understand why Stiles is making a big deal of this.

It’s less that Scott will actually miss the shirt and more of anger on principle. He’s been caring for Derek for almost the entire summer. If the werewolf wanted a new wardrobe, he should have said something. The action is so juvenile, he can hardly register it. Why would Derek take Scott’s shirt? Stiles wears plaid just about every single day. What is it about this one that Derek finds so offensive?

Derek begins to drag the shirt along the dusty floorboards, picking up dirt and leaves and other bits of grime. Only when the shirt is dark and ragged does he turn back to Stiles with a satisfied grin on his face. He brings it up to his face, gives it a large sniff before tossing it back to Stiles.

Stiles fumbles to catch it, mouth gaping.

“All this because you don’t like the way Scott smells?” Stiles asks, incredulous.

Stiles gets his answer when Derek rolls his eyes and tugs him to the couch. He’s careful with his claws but forceful with his grip. Stiles lets the werewolf have his way, too confused to stop him. It’s only when Derek is curled up next to him, arms wrapped around his torso and head tucked into his neck does he truly understand.

Derek doesn’t at all seem comfortable with the position. Their comfort in touch is something that has come with time and with casual growth. This is something else. This is Derek making a point. He can smell the wolf, the dark scent of dirt, pine, and sweat. It clouds out everything else.

“Oh,” he says dumbly. “I see.”

He shifts lightly. Derek tenses but then lets him move. Stiles adjusts them until Derek’s head is cradled against his chest and he has one hand placed on the werewolf’s back, stroking it in soothing patterns.

Despite all of his research, Stiles forgets that wolves, on a fundamental level, are territorial creatures. He can’t tell if the shirt irritated him because it was an unknown scent in his den or because it was the sign of Stiles being in another.

“It won’t happen again,” Stiles promises.

Derek relaxes ever so slightly in his embrace.

 

  
The next day, Stiles shows up with a pair of his sweats and one of his over-sized sleep shirts. Derek eyes them wearily, as if unsure of what he’s supposed to do with them, but he surprises Stiles when he willingly puts them on.

He spends the remainder of the visit sniffing Stiles and staring down at himself, both seemingly confused and awed by his predicament.

 

  
Stiles continues to bring Derek clothing; he can’t help himself. There’s something so gratifying about seeing Derek’s face light up when he fumbles to put on a new pair of pants or shirt. Now, the werewolf has a collection of socks, hats, sandals, and shoes to accessorize with although he often forgoes all of Stiles’ gifts except for the basic bottoms and tops.

Derek is particularly fond of a green Henley he brings him.

“I thought you’d like that one,” Stiles beams. “It’s one of the softest shirts I own.” It doesn’t even bother him that by the end of the week the shirt will probably be covered in dirt and forest matter.

Stiles doesn’t know what it is about sharing his clothes, but it seems to have shifted something in his relationship with his wolf. Derek is more tactile and although he remains quiet and reserved at times, he doesn’t brood in the same way.

Derek approaches Stiles carefully, eyes glowing, happy. Stiles breath hitches when Derek’s hand comes to rest on the side of his neck. His heart stutters in his chest and Stiles flushes.

“You’re welcome,” he says lowly, aware of the sound vibrations as they tickle his throat. Derek’s face is close and warm and suddenly Stiles finds himself leaning forward into the werewolf’s grip, lips parting and eyes drifting down to Derek’s lips. He doesn’t quite realize what he’s doing until Derek leans forward too and knocks his forehead against Stiles’ playfully. The hand on his neck is gone and Stiles is left dumbfounded and a little shaken.

Derek pays no mind and pads over to the living room where he’s built a sizable nest of Stiles’ clothing and empty hamburger wrappers. He realizes Stiles isn’t following and turns to give him a look over his shoulder.

The wave of affection that engulfs of Stiles is welcome if not a little surprising. He needs to figure out how to get Derek back to his human self before his feelings progress any further for both of their sakes.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.” His voice comes out soft and a little strangled.

 

They go running. After yesterday’s visit, he’s not so sure staying cooped up in a space with the werewolf is such a good idea all of the time. Running mainly means Stiles sprinting off at random intervals and Derek chasing him and tackling him to the ground like a big game of cat and mouse.

Stiles decided to wait until later in the evening before they went out so the odds of running into a hiker is low. They tear through the forest, Derek growling playfully and Stiles cackling between breaths as he ducks in and out of the trees. He has a feeling that Derek could have him tackled to the ground in three seconds flat, but instead he keeps his distance. They both enjoy the chase and when Derek finally does pounce, Stiles rolls with it, laughing and calling for surrender as they roll across the dimly-lit forest floor.

They end up lying side by side, Derek’s face tilted up towards the sky, eyes closed and mouth parted. He looks more at peace than Stiles has ever seen him.

Stiles is reaching out before he can think things through. His fingers trace the hardened line of the man’s shifted face.

“I wish you didn’t have these,” he says running a fingertip over Derek’s canines. _So I could kiss you._ The words get stuck in his throat and for once he stops them before they can leave his mouth.

Derek’s eyes open and he stares at Stiles, eyes glowing brightly. They stand out against the fading evening light. A beacon of blue emotion against a canvas of muted greens and browns. That those two eyes can speak a thousand words without a single word amazes him. Stiles’ heart palpitates recklessly against his rib cage. He doesn’t say it, but Derek’s responding glance is enough.

He knows.

 

Stiles’ actions don’t really register with him until he gets home that night. It’s three in the

morning by the time he finally sinks into bed, his mind abuzz with disparate but equally demanding thoughts.

Stiles touches his own, dull teeth with a finger and lets out a shaky sigh.

“Fuck,” he swears softly.

 

The next morning, Stiles can’t work up the courage to leave the house. The thought of seeing Derek sends a mixture of panic and excitement down his spine. It’s an echo of his own embarrassing crush he had on Lydia Martin for the duration of high school. He already has a hard enough time keeping his mouth shut and his hands to himself. He’s not sure if he can bear to have Derek see him like this.

Instead, Stiles does laundry and sweeps and mops the floor for the first time in months and does the dishes and does his best to think about anything else besides the Hale house.

His father gives him a strange look when he comes home to a clean house and a three-course dinner.

 

Three days go by before the guilt gets to him. Stiles has made every excuse there is. Throughout it all, the thought of Derek waiting on the porch for Stiles eats away at him. It’s not fair to the werewolf. It’s not his fault that Stiles has developed a strange crush on the man. He’s Derek’s only connection to humanity, his only way out. He needs to get over himself and get out of the house.

 

Stiles wanders up to the Hale house the next day with three bags of food, sweaty palms, and a stuttering heart. He nearly drops the food when he sees his wolf, huddled in his little nest of Stiles’ clothing. There’s a new addition to the pile. Copious amounts of flowers, weeds, and other brightly-colored plants litter the nest. Some of the flowers look like they have been carefully picked while others have been pulled out with their roots dangling off the ends like tassels.

“Derek,” Stiles says putting the food down, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left like that. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Stiles is babbling, and Derek just stares back at him. His blue eyes look less electric today, dulled and uncomprehending.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles keeps repeating as he wraps his arms around the wolf.

Derek allows the touch, but he does not sink into it. Stiles wonders if he hasn’t done something unforgivable. But then, Derek relaxes slowly into the embrace and settles. Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

The knot in his stomach has loosened and his feelings are behaving themselves today. Stiles feels, for a pure moment, perfectly content. They stay like that for hours, lying tangled together. Derek tucks his head into Stiles’ neck in the way he likes to do and reaffirms their scents. Stiles’ trembling goes down until he is lulled by the warm heat of the afternoon and the steady rise and fall of Derek’s chest. Exhaustion lifts, and he falls asleep.

 

  
When Stiles wakes up, Derek is gone.

The evening has bled into the night. Stiles has to squint his way past the couch and out the door with only his phone light to guide him. The bags of food he dropped at the entrance are missing, but Stiles doesn’t think much of it. He dusts himself off and drives home.

 

  
Derek isn’t there the next day. It doesn’t bother Stiles at first. He’s the one who broke up their routine. Derek is probably still out and about doing whatever it is he does when he’s not with Stiles. He settles on the couch and skims through a detective novel. When Derek fails to show his face after three hours, he decides to go home.

A third day passes and Derek still doesn’t show up. Is this revenge? Is he punishing Stiles for not showing up- for scaring him? Derek had seemed okay when he last saw him, but what does Stiles really know? His knowledge of Derek is limited to the other man’s facial expressions.

Stiles won’t let any darker thoughts permeate his brain. They hover, instead, above his head like a grey cloud, rumbling with spark and electricity.

 

Scott moves out. They hold his going away party in the park near the preserve. They cut the cake and reminisce since their days in high school and speculate their dreams of the future. The sun is high in the sky, pleasant even in late August.

Stiles laughs and partakes in the celebrations, but every couple of minutes, without fail, he can’t help but glance over towards the treeline and wonder.

 

By the end of the week, Stiles is sufficiently worried. The werewolf’s nest has remained untouched, it seems, even when Stiles isn’t present. Images of Derek caught in a trap and bleeding or lost in the woods plague his mind when he’s not at the house. He begins to search the Preserve in earnest, running through the woods in intervals throughout the day.

Sometimes in anger and desperation, he’ll shout out into the woods.

“Derek! Derek, where are you? I know you’re out there. Are you doing this on purpose? Are you punishing me? What do you want? I just want to know that you’re-” Stiles gets too choked up to finish and wipes angrily at his eyes.

 

With Scott gone and Derek missing, Stiles spends a lot of his time around the house. He knows he can’t worry about Derek forever and if the werewolf managed to survive years before Stiles, he’ll be fine without him. Perhaps that is what really digs into him- that even though they spent all that time together, Stiles could never fix him. He never figured out how to bring him back. Was he being selfish? Should he have pushed at Derek and forgone the pleasantries? Did he do the right thing?

His dad begins to notice his distress.

“Stiles.” the Sheriff clears his throat. Stiles blinks and reigns his thoughts back to the dinner table. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately. Something on your mind?”

Stiles shrugs and shovels more green beans into his mouth.

“I noticed you’ve been clearing out the attic,” he mentions.

Stiles grimaces thinking of the fallen pile of cases.

“Yeah,” he waves spastically, “Just a little tidying up.”

The Sheriff raises his eyebrows.

“So you weren’t snooping around the Hale file?”

Stiles chokes on his green beans.

“What?” he sputters.

His father smirks.

“You know, I’m not as stupid as you think I am,” he remarks.

“I don’t think you’re stupid!” Stiles retorts, but his father waves him off.

“And you’re certainly not as sly as you think you are,” he continues.

Stiles vehemently disagrees and the Sheriff laughs.

“Well, if you were curious, the Hales are actually back in town.”

Stiles is about to make a retort, but the news stops him, leaves him reeling. Laura and Cora are back in town? That does not make any sense. The worry that Stiles has managed to repress resurfaces with a vengeance and crawls up his throat demanding his breath.

“When?” he manages to ask despite his croaky throat.

The sheriff doesn’t seem to notice Stiles’ shift in mood.

“I ran into the older one, Laura, at the market. She was actually the one who approached me. I didn’t think she recognized me, but she just came out of nowhere while I was checking out and said hello.” Stiles stares at his father, uncomprehending.

“And?”

“And nothing. She’s living in New York with Cora. It sounds like she just came back to tidy some things up with the estate and move other things out of storage.”

Stiles doesn’t know what he was expecting. It’s not like Laura is going to spill her supernatural secrets to the county sheriff, but still. He can’t help but feel a little let down.

“That’s all?”

“Yeah,” the Sheriff sighs, “I guess everyone moves on at some point.”

Stiles stares at his plate, suddenly not hungry.

“You didn’t,” he says quietly.

The Sheriff shoots him a careful look.

“What do you mean?”

Stiles’ gaze flickers up and holds contact with his father, letting the intensity of what he is feeling beneath the surface of his mind leak into his voice.

“I mean..” he trails off, unsure of what to say. “I guess I just thought you would have been more interested in her life since you know,” Stiles waves uselessly in front of him, “You were so torn up over the case for so many years.”

The Sheriff regards him for a moment before his eyes travel just over Stiles’ shoulder to the wall where an old family photograph hangs. Stiles doesn’t need to turn around to know that his father’s eyes are locked on his mother, holding Stiles in her arms just after they moved into the house. They were a beautiful couple when she was still alive. She, like Stiles, loved in tangible ways. Her love could be cupped in a palm and tucked in a pocket.

“For a long time, I thought that Derek might still be out there,” the Sheriff confesses.

Stiles’ heart pounds in his chest.

“And what if he is?”

The older man shrugs.

“And what if he isn’t? The world is still turning. I can’t keep poking around an empty grave hoping to find a body. I have to be at peace with the notion that I did my best and the best thing I can do is move on.”

Stiles gets the sense that his father is talking about more than the Hale Case.

“And if Derek Hale is still out there, then I hope he has found some peace too.”

Stiles smiles grimly.

“I’ll drink to that.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> edit: Hi. Sorry. I want to clarify that this is not a completed work. I marked it as complete because I do not know when I will have time to put up the second half. Have no fear though, the second draft is 80% complete so it's not impossible that I won't finish it. Yeah. Sorry about that. Also, thank you for all your wonderful comments. You all are so sweet.


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